


Rarities Are a Precious Commodity

by Moon_Rose (Moonrose91)



Series: Wings in Disarray [5]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wings, Episode: s01e03 Commodities, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-02-17 23:32:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2327180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonrose91/pseuds/Moon_Rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan are being sent to Le Havre to retrieve a trader by the name of Emile Bonnaire. And what is a three-day journey there will be longer back when they have to use an alternate route that has Athos wishing he had never agreed to this duty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dawn in Paris

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, a few things;
> 
> 1) I'm gonna update this series twice in a row so that it is even with the other series, aka, Horse Raised Knowledge (mostly because I want the story count to be equal).
> 
> 2) I am in college, have a full course load, have chronic pain, and am working on a Reverse Big Bang (and all the other WIPs you see attached to my name). I write fanfiction to destress and relax and not lose what little sanity I have left. That being said _please_ be patient with me as I work on updating everything. I know you want to read more, I know it is frustrating that there isn't more, and I know I am often at fault for similar comments (though I try really hard not to be) but _please_ try not leave any variation of "update now" or "when are you going to update?" or anything to do with updating. It is stressful to me and makes me leave it alone because on one hand I want to update, but on the other, I don't want to work on something that stresses me out.
> 
> I have enough stress, I don't need anymore.
> 
> 3) If you see any misspellings, the wrong name used, typos, or I put something from the late 1600s into the early 1600s by mistake (again; I caught it before posting but still), _please_ tell me. I won't be mad, and I'll thank you.
> 
> Profusely.
> 
> 4) [I have timelines](http://moonrose91.tumblr.com/tagged/bbc%27s-the-musketeers-timeline). For _The Musketeers_. That I created. Yes, that was a total self-promotion. Right now they only go up through "Homecoming", but the rest are slowly, but surely, coming.
> 
> I accept suggestions on that, but I put the link for the timelines as they might help you to know when they are in this since _this_ series heavily follows that timeline.
> 
> Or, you know, entirely.
> 
> Yeah, entirely is good.
> 
> 5) I just realized I have been misspelling Bonacieux's name just now. I will go back and fix it later, but not now. From now on, however, it'll be spelled properly.

D'Artagnan let out a soft groan of protest as he slowly turned from his side to his stomach and resisted the urge to bury his face fully in his pillow as he felt himself wake with the dawn, his lifelong habit from growing up on the farm kicking in despite his lack of sleep.

His body did not care that he had not gotten to sleep until well past the tolling of the final hour thanks to an argument between Monsieur and Madame Bonacieux about money (“You'll have to give up one of your mistresses  _Pierre_  or we'll soon be out of a home!"), the fact they no longer had a maid (“I cannot _believe_ you just let her _quit_!” “It was better than having to fire her, which we were going to have to do anyway!”), and…other things ("That d’Artagnan is the cause of all our misfortune!" "And it can't be your abysmal business sense? You were the one who invested in your little brother's venture, even though you knew he is bad with money!  _And_ you lost the Treville account!" "You slapped one of his Musketeers!" "It was Aramis! Aramis is always being slapped by women!").

D'Artagnan flinched at that memory, burying his face into the pillow as his wings folded up and tight onto his back as the argument in full force rushed back into his mind.

He wished he had the  _money_  to go someplace else as the strain he was putting on the already strained marriage wasn’t worth being around someone he admired, but the money he got from Lupiac barely covered Fleur's care and what money he could scrimp up from jobs around the Garrison and getting pay from Treville went entirely into his board, which had increased upon his wings being revealed as…his wings.

If Serge didn’t like him (and if Constance weren’t a saint) d'Artagnan wasn’t sure _where_ he would be getting his food from and, as it was, he felt like he had to repay them.

(He did his best, but he knew Constance would yell at him if he was too obvious and Serge would just brush it off and _why couldn’t they just let him pay of his debts?_ )

He knew that his board did not cover meals just as he knew that Serge shouldn’t feed him from the Garrison kitchens, but that didn’t stop him from accepting food.

Besides, no matter how much he hated charity, he hated starving all the more.

The great dichotomy of his life was to be raised a gentleman while often being unsure of where his next meal would be coming from, and whatever that meal was, it was going to be eaten with relish.

D’Artagnan let out a sharp sigh at that and scrubbed his fingers through his hair before he slowly got out of bed.

He had been lollygagging around in bed for long enough and he had a meeting with Treville later this morning.

*~*~*

D’Artagnan carefully tugged on his jacket, hissing a bit when his wings had to bend oddly to get situated properly. Once the jacket was as settled as well as he could get it on his own (maybe Porthos would be there to help with adjusting it so it didn’t rub oddly against his scales or skin) he sat on the edge of his bed, and tugged on his boots.

Careful when he wiggled his foot into the boot and stomped on the heel to get his feet properly settled, he was soon back on his feet, rolling his shoulders instinctively to try and ease the irritation around his wings. He immediately stepped over to his weapons’ belt and buckled it on, his eyes never leaving his new cloak.

After the Vadim Incident it was revealed, during a _very_ cold and half-raining, half-snowing, day that d’Artagnan had neither cloak nor hat to keep the elements off of him.

Aramis had then proceeded to drag d’Artagnan to somewhere warm and dry, strip him out of his freezing wet clothes, and dry him off all while giving d’Artagnan a scolding (occasionally in Spanish) that would have had d’Artagnan’s mother nodding along in agreement while she helped.

About a week of this particular set of events happened before, on a particularly freezing day, when the icy rain was already soaking through those _with_ cloaks, Porthos had just wrapped a cloak, buttons bright and cloth almost stiff with the newness, around d’Artagnan’s shoulders. D’Artagnan had protested, weakly, as he buried into the protection offered by the cloak, even as the other three gave him such a _look_ that further protests died in his throat.

Since, he tried to only wear the weather deemed that he could not go without it and it had only _just_ lost the slight stiffness, moving smoothly when he wrapped it around his shoulders.

He knew, distantly, that Athos and Aramis hadn’t been happy with his selective use of the cloak, but Porthos has just ruffled d’Artagnan’s hair, chuckling when d’Artagnan had protested and pulled away.

But he couldn’t stop the knee-jerk reaction of wondering if he really _needed_ his cloak. He shifted and slowly walked over to his window, looking out over Paris before he pulled away, shaking his head. Without a second glance to his cloak, he walked out of his rented room, leaving the door open behind him, a signal to show he was up and out. He walked silently down the stairs, glancing around quickly, only to still upon seeing Monsieur Bonacieux in the hallway.

He didn’t think twice about looking down at the floor, his wings folding tight against his back when Bonacieux’s goose wings began to puff up. “I trust you’ll go out the back way,” Bonacieux stated.

“Yes Monsieur,” d’Artagnan answered and quickly left the house, shivering slightly from the cool spring dawn air.

For a moment, he hesitated and then, with a small shake, he made his way to Fleur’s stables.

He had time before he had to talk to Treville, as he doubted the Captain was up earlier than d’Artagnan.

*~*~*

Paris at dawn was something Athos rarely saw without a hangover.

His apartments were helpful in allowing him to… _enjoy_ the dawn view with a hangover as it was usually the dawn’s light digging into his closed eyes that had him waking up to do so. “Early morning risings not your preferred time to rise?” Aramis asked lightly as he settled his hat further back on his head while Porthos chuckled.

“I’ve had better. Generally while I was hung-over,” Athos answered as he settled at their preferred table, wings flexing slightly with the movement, and Aramis snorted, his wings flicking, while Porthos laughed loudly, his wings flexing slightly.

Athos felt himself give a small smile at his friends’ amusement and settled on the bench, even as he saw Porthos’s body shifted. “D’Artagnan!” he called and Athos turned to look over his shoulder, shifting his golden wings so he had a clearer view.

He felt his eyebrow rise as he watched d’Artagnan walk over to them. “I see early mornings are more agreeing to our young Gascon friend,” Aramis stated and d’Artagnan’s wings flexed briefly before folding down far too tightly against his back again.

“Farm. No matter what, I always rise with the dawn,” d’Artagnan answered softly before he slowly sat down on the same side as Athos and promptly slumped over onto the table, burying his head into his arms, wings held stiffly.

“Long night?” Aramis asked mischievously, his wings perking up when d’Artagnan nodded, though Porthos stood up to walk around to fix d’Artagnan’s jacket.

“Did you spend your evening with a lady?” Aramis asked and d’Artagnan shook his head even as he let out a muffled sound of relief as his wings fully relaxed, almost hitting Athos as they practically collapsed.

Not even the jarring _thump_ of the wings hitting wood had d’Artagnan twitching and Athos just shifted slightly, being careful to avoid touching d’Artagnan’s wings.

He knew how d’Artagnan felt about them and Athos did not think the Gascon would take well to suddenly having one touched.

Porthos pat d’Artagnan’s head and d’Artagnan huffed softly. “Then what kept you up?” Athos asked.

“Loud voices,” d’Artagnan mumbled, his wings twitching slightly when Porthos pat d’Artagnan’s back, almost where the wings were before he walked around.

“Bonacieux is in a good place. What loud voices could there be?” Aramis asked, his wings twitching and d’Artagnan managed to shrug his outside wing slightly.

“I’d sit up. Serge is almost here for the food,” Porthos stated as he sat down once more and d’Artagnan slowly sat up, using his wrist to cover his yawn.

“Thank you Serge,” he stated and Serge pat his head before he continued to hand food out to those who managed to make it in time to break the fast.

“Why is everyone here this early?” d’Artagnan asked as he pushed his porridge around listlessly.

“Eat and we’ll discuss it,” Athos stated and d’Artagnan obeyed.

They waited till d’Artagnan’s wings were less sprawling and folded closer to him before Athos began to explain. “Treville ordered us to report here first thing in the morning. Generally this means that he wishes to see us right after breakfast is finished being served for the Garrison,” Athos explained and d’Artagnan nodded.

“Must be before he’s talking with me,” d’Artagnan stated.

“You got a meeting with Treville?” Porthos asked and d’Artagnan nodded.

“Might be the same time,” Aramis stated and d’Artagnan shook his head, Athos frowning as he sipped at his glass of wine.

“No. If it is something important enough for the best, I highly doubt it’ll include me,” d’Artagnan answered his wings folding tight against his back once more as he focused on his food.

Porthos’s wings puffed up at d’Artagnan’s words and Aramis’s wings did that mad twitching thing they did whenever he was losing his temper. “D’Artagnan,” Aramis began to protest, only to get cut off by Treville’s shout of, “Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and d’Artagnan, to my office!”

“Duty calls. Come along fledgling,” Porthos ordered and d’Artagnan scowled, even as he quickly finished off his porridge with a muttered, “Not a fledgling.”

Porthos merely chuckled and Aramis wrapped an arm around d’Artagnan’s shoulders. “To us you are,” Aramis teased and d’Artagnan glared at Aramis even as Athos sighed.

“Come along gentlemen, or we’ll be late,” Athos ordered and Porthos and Aramis quickly fell into step, d’Artagnan scrambling slightly to keep up.


	2. Orders to Le Havre

D'Artagnan stood towards the back as Treville settled at his desk. "Within the next week, and hopefully towards the end of the week, a trader by the name of Emile Bonnaire is to come into port at Le Havre. From there you are to escort him along a scenic route back to Paris to face the King's justice. Take your time, as he may have people along the road between Le Havre and Paris to assist him in escaping, but get to Le Havre as quickly as you can. D'Artagnan is going to go with you because I don't think there will be much trouble and the last time I asked you to pick a fourth, you mysteriously forgot to before you headed out," Treville answered.

"We didn't forget," Aramis answered.

"Yeah. He just didn't get packed up in time," Porthos responded with a grin and d'Artagnan raised an eyebrow while Athos looked pointedly at the floor.

Treville sighed and shook his head. “I would prefer you four to leave before noon, if at all possible. D’Artagnan, you’ll need to sign out a horse from our stables,” Treville answered.

“I have a horse, sir,” d’Artagnan argued immediately, ignoring the way they glanced at him.

“A farm horse is well and good but she won’t be able to keep up,” Treville stated.

“She’s not a farm horse. Fleur is of Friesland stock,” d’Artagnan corrected, refusing to give ground.

He was _not_ going to leave Fleur for who knew how long. Not when he feared that if he didn’t go check on her daily (sometimes twice daily) he would find her long sold and unable to get justice.

Justice, for someone like him?

He might as well demand to be king.

“How long have you had her?” Treville asked.

“She’s six this year, Captain. I got her when she was four, as my uncle decided at that point that I should have her,” d’Artagnan answered calmly, remembering how his father and uncle had gotten into an argument over that while d’Artagnan had bonded with the mare.

Fleur already had a reputation of being dangerous, which was why his uncle had given her to him. Never mind that d’Artagnan was good with animals, from the dogs in the village to the cats that prowled the farms and even to the geese that d’Artagnan’s mother had kept, even if the vicious creatures had chased the dogs.

This had extended even to Fleur, who d’Artagnan adored from the moment he saw her.

“She can stand still under fire?” Treville asked.

“Yes, she can Captain,” d’Artagnan answered.

“If Fleur is the horse he rode when we cleared Athos’s name, then the horse can easily keep up with us,” Porthos added and d’Artagnan nodded.

“Very well. When you get back, bring her here. We’ll figure out a boarding fee so she can be kept with the rest of the horses in the Garrison, is that understood?” Treville answered.

“Yes Captain,” d’Artagnan answered and Treville nodded.

“Good. Dismissed,” he ordered and d’Artagnan quickly retreated out of the Captain’s office.

“Will she really stay calm if we are fired upon?” Athos asked quietly and d’Artagnan nodded.

“All right. You know how to pack for long travel?” Athos continued and d’Artagnan smiled.

“Pack light on clothes and always leave room for ammunition and food that’ll keep a while,” he answered and Porthos chuckled, gently pulling d’Artagnan against his side and throwing him into shadow as the man’s left wing came up.

“I knew I judged you right,” Porthos stated and d’Artagnan ducked his head slightly while Aramis chuckled, pushing his hat back slightly on his head.

“Very well. Be here between ten and eleven. I want to leave closer to eleven so we can beat the heat of the day by a good margin. And if you aren’t here, I’m sending Porthos to find you as well as reporting it to Treville,” Athos responded and d’Artagnan nodded.

Porthos let him go then and d’Artagnan quickly retreated, heading down the shortest route between the Garrison and Bonacieux’s back door.

*~*~*~*

D’Artagnan focused on packing his saddlebags as light as he could, making sure that his purse was in the middle, not the top or the bottom. After all, ‘the top was good for sticky fingers and the bottom good for a quick knife.’

 “Packing for a trip are we?” Monsieur Bonacieux asked as d’Artagnan was proud of himself for not tensing.

“Yes Monsieur. I am being sent out for a time with some Musketeers,” d’Artagnan answered quickly as he continued to pack things around.

He would buy some rolls on the way back over to the Garrison. Maybe some sort of treat for Fleur as well, as he had managed his funds enough that he should have enough for that. “How long will you be gone?” Bonacieux asked and d’Artagnan slowly turned to face him.

“Minimum of two weeks,” d’Artagnan responded, feeling like lead was gathering in his stomach to replace the breakfast he had eaten before his meeting with Treville.

“Two weeks? Well…what’s to say you won’t be gone a month? What will I do with your room without you here to pay for the lodging?” Bonacieux asked, his wings spreading threateningly.

“I have a month’s rent on me,” d’Artagnan stated and Bonacieux smiled.

“What if the rent goes up while you’re away? You can’t expect me to just leave this room available. After all, it is a good room,” Bonacieux stated and d’Artagnan resisted the urge to let out a resigned sigh.

“I’ll pay the difference when I get back,” d’Artagnan offered.

“I don’t think that’s enough,” Bonacieux stated and d’Artagnan resisted the urge to swallow.

“What do you suggest, monsieur?” d’Artagnan responded, knowing exactly what Bonacieux was going to say.

“Collateral of course.”

*~*~*

“We were just about to send Porthos out looking for you,” Aramis greeted as d’Artagnan walked into the Garrison, Fleur fully tacked up, saddlebags properly filled.

He was wearing the cloak they had given him, and it allowed his wings free movement, even with their size.“No, just…had to take care of a few things,” he answered as double checked the girth before he mounted up, his wings flaring briefly as he settled in the saddle easily.

“You sure you’re all right?” Porthos asked as he mounted up onto his own horse.

“Fine,” d’Artagnan answered, dropping back slightly as Athos mounted up and rode out, Aramis following shortly after.

Porthos frowned, but nodded before he nudged his horse’s side and rode out of the Garrison, d’Artagnan following him shortly thereafter.


	3. What is Collateral

“That’s the third time you’ve done that,” Athos stated and d’Artagnan looked over at him, noticing that Roger was as calm with d’Artagnan riding with his wings out as Fleur was.

“Done what?” d’Artagnan asked as he looked forward again, unsurprised to see that both Aramis and Porthos had slowed their own horses so they could listen in.

While he was unsure of…everything with them, he had learned that whenever one of them was in trouble, the other two (or…three, maybe? D’Artagnan was often included, but he was not…he did not _understand_ and was afraid to ask) were quick to follow. If something was wrong…

“Reaching for your neck and then stopping yourself before you get very far,” Athos answered calmly and d’Artagnan, who realized his hand was twitching towards where the… _collateral_ should be.

The other two had given up on pretending not to be listening and had guided their horses to the side of road, Athos following suit. “We need to get to Le Havre,” d’Artagnan stated as he stayed half on the road, not wanting to talk about it.

Not wanting to talk about losing his mother's St. Margret of Antioch medal, even though he still held the charm (a small stitched closed pouch that held one of her feathers, one of his father’s feathers, and one of his scales) that had been his mother’s and her St. Clare of Assisi medal, which he had shifted to being stitched on the charm instead of hanging next to her other medal.

She had given him both as she lay dying.

“Le Havre will still be there if we need to wait a few hours. Right now it is more important to talk to you,” Aramis stated and d’Artagnan made a slight face at that

“It isn’t important. Wasn’t time of the essence?” d’Artagnan answered, still not riding over to them, even as Porthos frowned.

“Yer doin’ it again, which means it _is_ important, so that takes a slight priority over needing to rush to Le Havre. Besides, we’re getting to the hottest part of the day and it is better to rest our horses and push them after, then ride ‘em straight through,” Porthos argued.

“Being raised on a farm, you should know this, and truly the fact you are insisting we just continuing riding already tells us that your reaching for whatever it is, it _is_ important, so I think we should discuss it, don’t you?” Aramis continued and d’Artagnan scowled right before he threw himself out of the saddle, wings flaring slightly with his movement.

“Fine,” d’Artagnan bit out as he gently lead Fleur off the road, the mare following easily.

The other three dismounted in a far more sedated manner and followed him to a reasonably shady place on the side of the road.

*~*~*

Porthos watched d’Artagnan carefully as the boy worked with his mare, removing the saddle, making sure she had access to both grass and water, even going so far as to, somehow, remove the bit so she had unfettered access to both.

He was also obviously, and understandably, irritated and his wings were twitching and folding close. They had pushed him into a corner and Porthos knew it was only a manner of time till he fought them or flew from them.

Porthos really hoped he’d fly, because Porthos didn’t feel up to fighting the boy, not when the kid sometimes reminded him too much of those in the Court with burned and battered wings who had only escaped being burned at the stake because of quick thinking on their, or the Court’s, part.

“Now, what’s wrong?” Aramis asked and d’Artagnan closed his eyes as he sat down on the ground, leaning back against the saddle he had placed on the ground.

“Bonnacieux demanded extra money so I would have a room when I returned, as well as collateral, which happens to be my mother’s saint’s medal. Specifically, a medal of St. Margret of Antioch, which happens to be made of silver, along with the chain. It is the only thing I have of hers that I can wear,” d’Artagnan answered quickly.

The silence was heavy around them and d’Artagnan kept his eyes closed, not looking at them, not glancing at them. “He has no right,” Porthos growled.

“No, he doesn’t. Maybe that’s why my mother decided to give me that medal of hers. After all, Margret the Virgin-Martyr is not only the patron of childbirth, but also of those wrongfully accused,” d’Artagnan answered and then he shifted to use the saddle as a pillow as he lay on his side.

Porthos muttered curses, but he joined d’Artagnan in dozing, while Aramis tensed and clenched his fists, relaxing and tensing in turns.

Athos sipped wine from his wineskin and kept watch.

*~*~*

D’Artagnan kept reaching for his mother’s medal, even as he reminded himself he had his mother’s protection packet.

She had believed that herbs and prayers and feathers and locks of hair and scales could keep her loved ones safe if they were tucked by the heart, and, as such, had taken those things freely given and stitched them into a cotton packet that she had carried with her at all times.

D’Artagnan had loyally carried on the tradition (had even made one of his own), even though it hadn’t worked.

He had moved the packets (his mother’s and his own) from the hidden pocket at his left breast to the hidden pocket of his left hand saddlebag upon his father’s death, stitching it closed after doing so.

Without his mother’s metal, he wanted to take his main-gauche and cut the pocket open and retrieve it.

“D’Artagnan,” Porthos called and he looked up to find that they had stopped while he had been lost in thought.

“Might want to get your bindings on. Sailors are a superstitions lot,” Porthos warned and d’Artagnan winced at the thought of what they might do to him before he dismounted, grabbing his saddlebags before he went to get his wings hidden away.


End file.
